Best Year Ever
by allthingsdecent
Summary: A New Year's Eve fic, set in Season 3. We know House has the power to hurt Cuddy. But can she hurt him, too?


**Hey kids: Just a little holiday fic, set post-Finding Judas, but AU because Tritter is not in the picture. (This is more about the concept of House knowing "just where to poke a sharp stick"). Speaking of AU, in my mind House and Cuddy start seriously dating at the end of this fic. But you can decide for yourself. **

**Also, sorry about the long(ish) hiatus. I'm trying to ease back from my compulsive fic output. Two or three fics a month seems more reasonable, amirite?**

**Special thanks to Princess Rainbow Puke, MystryGAB, KB, and Irene for beta reading this one.- atd**

House and Cuddy were sniping at each other—again.

There was always some sort of showdown between them. Sometimes it was a battle of wits. Sometimes it was a power struggle. Sometimes it was an exchange of insults. It was always its own form of mating ritual.

Today's topic: A 30ish, married guy with two kids had a degenerative nerve disease. Untreated, his condition would worsen and he would probably die within 10 years. House was proposing a risky procedure that _could_ cure him—but more likely would kill him on the table.

Predictably, she said no.

So they did their dance: House accused Cuddy of playing it safe, of being more concerned about law suits than the wellbeing of the patient. Cuddy accused House of being a mad scientist, gleefully rubbing his hands together at the prospect of this radical surgery.

"You don't care about this man," Cuddy said. "You just want to see if your crazy idea works."

"Then it's a win win. Because if my so-called crazy idea works, he'll get better."

"And if doesn't, a woman will lose her husband and two small children will be without their father."

"Better now than 10 years from now," House said. "At least now, the wife is still young enough to land another man."

Cuddy felt the blood rising to her face..

"So that's how you see it? One husband and father figure is just as good as another?"

"A healthy husband is in fact, better than one who will most likely be in a wheelchair for the rest of his short, miserable life," House countered.

Cuddy was incredulous.

"You really are a heartless bastard, you know that?" she hissed. "You literally have no concept of love, House. It's why you're alone. It's why you'll _always_ be alone."

Almost the moment she said it, Cuddy felt that she had gone too far—crossed a personal line. Then again, was there such a thing as going too far with House? His skin wasn't just thick, it was bullet-proof.

But then she saw his face.

His eyes had widened—and he was staring at her, in shock. His mouth dropped open a bit. He began to say something, but stopped.

Then, without saying another word, he stormed out of her office.

Cuddy watched him limp away.

"What the hell just happened?" she said out loud.

####

She reflected on the fight for the rest of the afternoon. She felt horrible. But at the same time, she thought she must've been imagining things. House didn't "do" hurt. Especially not over something she said. The nastier the fight got, the more he seemed to relish it.

_But that look in his eyes. . ._

Her mind flashed, briefly, to that day a few weeks ago, when House told her she'd never be a good mother. He had hit a raw nerve—intentionally. When House wanted to hurt you, he did it with surgical precision.

Had she possibly done the same? House had the power to hurt her because, despite herself, she valued his opinion. Was it possible he felt the same way?

She shook off the thought. House doesn't care about anyone's opinion other than his own.

Still, she'd said a mean thing. The kind of thing she wouldn't dream of saying to anyone but House. (Somehow, around him, the rules of polite society no longer applied.) Screw it, she thought. House may say cruel and insensitive things all the time, but that didn't mean she needed to stoop to his level. She was going to apologize.

She went down to his office.

He was sitting alone at his desk—the lights off, his team nowhere to be found—kind of staring off into space.

When he saw her, hooked up, blinked.

"Change your mind about the surgery?"

"No," she said.

"Then what are you doing here?" His voice was testy.

"I. . . I wanted to apologize."

"For what?"

She studied his face: As usual, it was completely inscrutable.

"For what I said earlier: About you always being alone. It was a terrible thing to say. I didn't mean it. And. . . I'm sorry."

"Apology not accepted," he said.

"What? _Why?_"

"Because apology not necessary," he finished. "We were having an argument. Nasty things were said. Happens all the time."

"I just . . . had the sense that I had gone too far. Hurt your feelings."  
"Impossible. Because we both know I don't have any feelings, right Cuddy?"

"I never said that," she said.

"Cuddy, don't project. _You_ cry over mean things people say. A flaw of your gender. I don't."

God, he was such a bastard.

"Fine," she said. "Maybe I didn't hurt your feelings. Maybe I didn't go too far. But I'm sorry all the same."

"Sorry enough to give me my procedure?"

"No."

"Then get the hell out of my office and let me go back to work."

_Don't you mean get back to sitting in the dark and sulking?_ she thought, but didn't say.

"Good idea," she said.

######

Later, she made her way to Wilson's office. She felt like she wanted to hear him say something, although she wasn't quite sure what.

"I think I hurt House's feelings," she said.

"Impossible," Wilson quipped. "House doesn't have any feelings."

"That's what he just said."

Wilson looked at her.  
"Of course, he has feelings," he said seriously. "He's actually pretty sensitive. So what exactly did you say?"

Cuddy looked down at the floor. She felt like crap.

"I told him he was heartless and would always be alone."

"Jesus, Cuddy."

"I know, right? Who says that? He brings this kind of behavior out of me."

"Don't be too hard on yourself. No one should be held responsible for their behavior in the presence of Greg House. It's like fighting with a feral dog. You have to kick, scratch, and bite. By any means necessary. It's you or him."

"The good news is, he claims it didn't hurt him."

"Oh, it hurt him alright," Wilson said.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because he cares what you think about him."

This, she realized, was exactly what she was fishing for.

"You think?"

"Of course."

"I thought House didn't care what anyone thought of him."

"Mostly true. He has two exceptions as far as I can tell: Me. . . and you. And he doesn't want to get down _my_ pants."

"Don't be crude, Wilson. It's not your style."

"Now _I'm_ hurt," he cracked.

"So what do I do?"

"You apologized, right?"

"Right."

"What else can you do? He's a big boy. He'll get over it."

#####

Two days later, Cuddy slid across from House in the cafeteria, put down her tray (chicken salad over greens and a cup of fruit salad).

He was sitting alone, nursing a pastrami sandwich and chips.

He gave her an accusatory look.

"So we're lunch buddies now?" he said.

"We have lunch together all the time," Cuddy said.

"No—you, me, and _Wilson_ have lunch together all the time. Not just you and me, like we're on some sort of date."

"Fine, I'll leave," she said, starting to get up.

He eyed her.

"You can stay," he said. "Since you're already here."

She sat back down.

"Thank you," she said, ironically.

"You still mad at me?" she asked.

"I told you, I was never mad at you. My feelings weren't hurt and I did _not _cry myself to sleep."

"I meant over the veto on the nerve procedure."

"Oh, that," he said sheepishly. "Yes, still furious."

"And yet your compromise seems to have bought him—and your team—more time."

"Compromise is my middle name. Oh no wait, it's yours."

Cuddy shrugged.

Then she gave him a bright look.

"So, big plans for New Year's?"

"Yes, I have a very hot date," House said.

"Really?"

This was unexpected.

"With a man named Jim Bean. And we might make it a threesome with his close friend Johnny Walker."

"Sounds depressing," she said.

"They say the way you spend the New Year dictates the tone for the rest of the year. Just wanted to be consistent."

######

"I just don't understand why he isolates himself like that," Cuddy was saying, looking in the mirror and applying her mascara. She and Julia were getting ready to go out to a New Year's party at the penthouse office where Dave, Julia's husband, worked. Cuddy was in the master bath. Julia was in the bedroom staring at two dresses she had laid out on the bed.

"This one?" she said, holding up a black dress. "Or this?"—a red one.

"Definitely red," Cuddy said. She went back to her makeup.

"The thing is, he's miserable, but it's like a self-fulfilling prophecy, you know?"

"Who?" Julia said.

"House! Haven't you been paying attention?"

"I have sis. But it's a bit of a broken record to be honest. All you've been doing for the past few days is talk about him."

"No I haven't," Cuddy said, defensively.

"Yeah, you kind of have."

"Well, he's my employee. And my. . . friend. I worry about him."

"You have 500 employees, Lis. And lots of friends. And yet he's the only one you've been yammering on and on about."

Cuddy shrugged.

"He's a bit high maintenance sometimes."

"And you're totally in love with him."

Cuddy stopped, her eyeline pencil poised mid eye, and stared at her.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"_I'm_ not the one being ridiculous."

"And I'm _not_ in love with Gregory House."

Julia smirked.

"Good, because there's a co-worker of Dave's I've been dying to introduce you to. His name is Phil. Forty. Rich. Gorgeous. And not a creepy misanthropic loner with a limp."

Cuddy decided to ignore her. She applied some lip gloss, smacked her lips together.

"How do I look?" she said.

Julia inspected her: Form fitting navy blue dress, black velvet pumps, her hair cascading in shiny waves.

"Gorgeous as usual. Phil—no guy for that matter—is going to be able to resist."

#####

She told Julia she'd meet her at the party. Found herself in a somewhat unfamiliar hallway. Took a deep breath and knocked.

House answered—dressed in jeans and an old white tee, already holding a glass of scotch—and gaped at her.

"Whoa," he said.

Behind him, jazz music blared from the speakers.

She was relieved that he seemed to be alone. She feared she might find him with an apartment full of hookers.

"Happy New Year!" she said.

"I think you have the wrong apartment," he cracked.

"No, I have the right apartment. I've come to relieve you from your misery and take you to a party."

He continued to stare.

"Unless it's a Beauty and the Beast theme, you've got the wrong guy."

"I've been to enough medical review board hearings with you to know for a fact that you own a nice suit," she said. "And I also know for a fact that you clean up pretty well."

The tiniest of smiles played at the corners of his mouth.

"But what you don't know is that I hate parties," he said.

"This isn't any old party. This is a party with me," she said. She already felt that the impulse that had fueled her—a heady combination of Wilson telling her that House cared about her opinion and Julia insisting she was in love with him—was beginning to wane.

What the hell was she doing here?

"I have a better idea," House said. "Why don't you come inside and have a drink?"

Cuddy felt deflated. Like she had just asked a boy to the Sadie Hawkins dance and he had refused.

"I'll pass," she said. "Oh well. I tried. Happy New Year House."

"Happy New Year Cuddy," he said. "I envy the lucky guy who's going to get to dance with you tonight in that dress."

He had a proud look on his face. He thought she'd be pleased. So he was surprised when she glared at him and said, "You're an idiot."

"I'm an _idiot_?" he said. "Why?"

"Because _you_ could be the lucky guy dancing with me."

"I meant a guy who actually has a shot with you," House muttered. "A guy that you _like_."

"What the hell do you think I'm doing here?"

"Continuing the apology tour you've been on since you _allegedly_ hurt my feelings."

Cuddy shook her head.

"Why do I even bother?" she said. "Do you know how much courage it took for me to come over here tonight? Forget it. House. Good night."

She started to leave but he grabbed her arm, stopping her.

"You were right," he said quietly.

"About what?" She was still feeling angry, but the look on his face was softening her.

"About hurting my feelings. You did. It hurt me a lot."

He let go of her arm.

"House, I'm sorry," she said. "I feel terrible about what I said."

"I know," he said. He looked at his feet. "So you'll stay for a drink? One drink, okay? It's only 9:30. I'll have you to the party in plenty of time."

Cuddy sighed.

"Okay," she said.

#####

He lowered the music, poured her a glass of scotch.

She liked House's apartment—it smelled woodsy and masculine, the leather couch was wonderfully aged, and right now, a single lamp bathed them both in a warm light.

"To a bitchin' 2007," House said.

And they clinked glasses.

"What was your best year ever?" Cuddy said.

"My best year ever? Who are you? Barbara Walters?"

"Just making New Year's small talk."

House gave her a teasing smile.

"Ummm, I gotta think about that. You go first."

Cuddy got a somewhat dreamy look on her face.

"Freshman year at Michigan," she said.

House grinned.

"I knew I was good. I didn't know I was _that _good," he said.

Cuddy swatted him. It was rare that either of them alluded to their one-night stand together.

"Not because of that," Cuddy said, taking a sip and rolling the strong liquid on her tongue. "Well, not _entirely_ because of that. . . For the first time, I felt like an adult, you know? I was free from my parents, I knew what I was going to do with my life, I had great friends. And yeah"—she looked up, flirtatiously. "I nailed the cutest guy on campus."

"I pray you're talking about me," House said.

"Who else, dummy?"

House smiled.

"Anyway," Cuddy continued. "It was the first time I really felt like I was coming into my own."

"I felt it," House said musingly. "I mean, we all could see it. It was like you were blossoming right before our eyes. It was incredibly fucking hot."

Cuddy blushed a bit. Without asking, House poured her some more scotch.

"Okay," Cuddy said. "Your turn. Best year ever."

House swirled the scotch in his own glass and gave a thoughtful sigh.

"1997," he said finally. "Stacy has just moved in with me. I got this huge grant for my diagnostic research. An article of mine was printed in the New England Journal of Medicine. It was like the year I could finally say, 'Fuck you, Dad. You were wrong about me. I'm a success.'" His voice trailed off. He looked down at his leg. "And then. . .it all went to hell," he said.

"House, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," House said, looking at her. "You're part of the reason I'm still standing—metaphorically speaking, that is."

"If your father can't see that you're a success, then he's an idiot," Cuddy said.

"Oh yeah. I'm living the dream. Drinking alone on New Year's."

"But you're not alone, are you?"

"No, but I'm keeping you away from your party." He raised his eyebrows. "The world needs to see you in that dress."

Flirting in public was one thing. Alone, in his apartment, with the dim light, the music, the liquor—was a different story altogether.

"And you'd like to see me out of this dress," she said, before she could stop herself.

He gulped the scotch that was in his mouth, a bit shocked by her forwardness.

"That's true," he said, staring at her.

"Then do something about it," Cuddy said. (It was the flipside of the inhibition that had caused her to insult him. Social boundaries got blurred around House.)

His breathing got a little conspicuous. He licked his lips, put his drink down.

"Stand up," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

Tentatively, she stood.

He circled her, stood behind her, then slowly unzipped her dress. It dropped heavily to the floor.

She shuddered a bit, but not because she was cold.

His breathing was getting louder.

He deftly reached out and unhooked her bra with his thumb, then he gently pulled off her thong.

Save for her pumps, she was now completely naked.

She went to kick them off.

"No," he said hoarsely. "Leave those."

She bit her lip. Watched him take her in.

His eyes moved from her neck to her breasts to her stomach to the small strip of hair between her legs.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he said.

She kept waiting for him to kiss her, to touch her, but he didn't. He just stood there, staring at her. Were it not for his sudden discovery of Christ—and the enormous bulge in his pants—she might think his interest was strictly clinical.

"Aren't you going to at least kiss me?" she said, finally, feeling a bit sheepish.

"Shhhh," he said. "You're not the boss of me here, Lisa Cuddy."

He continued to take her in, then moved toward her. When he finally touched her, it was like a jolt of electricity went shooting through her body.

_Ooooh yeah, he knows how to do this_, she thought.

Slowly, his hands—those long, graceful hands of his— moved from her neck, to the plain of her stomach, to her ass, which he lingered over for a long time, caressing it, cupping it, massaging it.

Finally, he kissed her—but not on the mouth. On her throat, his mouth full and soft, then between her breasts. He was being careful to delay his gratification—and hers.

Cuddy realized that part of the turn on was not knowing what he would do next. At work, she controlled everything, even him. She closed her eyes, gave into the totally erotic sensation of being out of control.

When he finally cupped her breasts in his hands, then circled them slowly with his hot tongue, before gently biting on the buds, Cuddy was wondering if it was possible to have an orgasm from a fully clothed man sucking on her nipples.

She was wet, almost weak with desire.

"_Hoooouse_," she moaned.

Perhaps the sound of her turned on voice was more than he could take, because he finally pulled her toward him and kissed her mouth hungrily. As slow and deliberate as he had been before, he was now the opposite. He was all over her, ravenous.

She reached under his tee-shirt, which he helped wriggled over his head, and then his jeans.

She realized that she appreciated his body almost as much as he appreciated hers. It wasn't a gym body, with useless muscles. He was lean and naturally strong.

His cock was already angrily poking through his boxers, but she wanted to see him in all his glory so she took those off, too, and he was standing there, now fully naked, as she was. She wanted him inside her in the worst way.

"Fuck me, House," she said.

"Yes," he whispered. "Yes."

######

She figured once they'd had sex, he'd immediately put up walls, start to downplay it, pretend it didn't matter.

Instead, he held her in his arms, kissed her forehead, continued to caress her.

"You are so fucking beautiful," he murmured. "Do you know how beautiful you are?"

So Gregory House was a romantic. The wonders never ceased.

"So are you," she said, meaning it.

Their limbs were still tangled together and they were both a bit sweaty and still very much on a sex high. If House had asked, she would've agreed to his stupid nerve procedure. She felt that relaxed and compliant.

Instead he glanced at the clock next to the bed and said, "Shit! It's 12:30. You missed New Year's."

She chuckled, snuggled closer.

"If the way you spend New Year's dictates the tone for the rest of the year. . . " she started.

"Then I'm about to have my new best year ever," House finished happily.

Cuddy smiled: "Me too."

THE END


End file.
